


But You Leave Me No Choice

by bertie456 (bertee)



Series: Bones: You're Lovely to Me [36]
Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/pseuds/bertie456





	But You Leave Me No Choice

Much to the surprise of his mother, his friends and his pet Labrador, Mark Williams liked his job.

Admittedly, being an airport security guard wasn't the most exciting role he could've hoped for, although it did beat the summer spent selling fertilizer door-to-door in his teens, but Mark found it rewarding to know that he was protecting the borders of the United States of America and tackling terrorism on home soil. True, the most dangerous thing he'd found in someone's luggage was a smuggled parakeet with a deceptively sharp beak, but that didn't rule out the possibility of someday finding weapons-grade plutonium nestled between a pair of granny panties and a romance novel.

This prospect seemed far less exciting to his non-work friends and family, who almost unanimously wondered just what the hell he was doing with his life. His mother, Edna, regarded him as something of a lost cause after he'd failed to get the necessary college degree required to join the FBI and had also failed the standard police fitness test as a result of one too many trips to the Krispy Kreme store.

His friends, who had first known him as the blond-haired, blue-eyed football player from high school, found it difficult to accept that he was now spending his days feeling people up for a living and 'hand job' jokes were always forthcoming during nights out. Even his faithful dog, Rupert, shot him pitying glances when he returned from work, as though questioning why his master would choose to frisk strangers all day instead of taking him for walks and buying him large chewy frisbees in a variety of lurid colors.

Mark himself, however, was mostly happy with the way his life had turned out. He'd made good friends at Dulles Airport, liked what he did for a living, and was about seventy percent certain that the coffee-shop girl had flirted with him the day before.

Unfortunately, any further flirting on either of their parts had been put on hold for the day.

Some high-up government source (of which there were plenty in DC) had provided intelligence on a possible terrorism threat and in response, the airport had tightened security, establishing body and baggage scanners at the entrances to Dulles International to check visitors as well as those who were flying.

This didn't disturb the majority of the airport activity, since the hire cars and taxis waited outside for their clients, but did require the drafting of extra personnel to deal with those who wanted to meet their loved ones inside. For Mark, the "drafting of extra personnel" would more appropriately be termed "making him work overtime and robbing him of the chance to moon over Coffee-Shop Betty".

And so he was there, stationed at the 'Visitors Only' security checkpoint while he waved people's loved ones through to the arrivals' gate and tried unsuccessfully to tune out the incessant small talk from his coworker, Harriet.

"Then Greg told Chris that his fingers would fall off if he poked the toad, and of course, Chris can never resist an experiment, like with my sister last summer when he ate his cousin's hair..."

 _Please be quiet,_ he thought pleadingly. _I don't need to hear any more about your compulsive eater of a son. Just be quiet._

"Of course, that was the same weekend that he'd had the incident with the chair, so I suppose the hair-eating could be attributed to Post-Traumatic Stress..."

 _Post Traumatic Stress? He spent an hour with his head stuck in a chair, not a year fighting in the Gulf._

"He still looks at chairs strangely even now. I'm just glad that Mrs Clegg next door had a handsaw in her shed or he'd have been in there for hours." She wrinkled her brow briefly, still keeping her eyes fixed on the slow procession of visitors through the scanners. "I never did find out why Mrs Clegg had that handsaw. Seems like a strange thing to keep lying around..."

 _She's a serial killer. She chops up people and stores them in her basement. With any luck, you'll be next and I can go back to being partnered with Sarah._ He let out a small sigh. _Okay, drug smugglers, terrorists and/or illegal parakeet exporters, now would be a good time for you to let me catch you._

"Anyway, so the boys had been learning about reptiles in science class, and I know a toad isn't a reptile, but you can see how they'd be easily mistaken for one, right? So the kissing was really just a scientific inquiry, and I don't want to discourage them from their studies, but I'm honestly not comfortable with my son becoming intimate with amphibians-"

To Mark's immense relief, the discussion of toad-intimacy was abruptly drowned out by the alarm sounding from the metal detector.

He rushed forward, fighting the urge to set up a small shrine in honor of the wonderful person who'd saved him from the conversation and gave the woman in question a reassuring smile. When the alarm fell silent, he gestured to the overcoat covering her slim frame, asking politely, "Could you remove your coat please, ma'am? Just slide it into the X-ray machine with your shoes and then give the metal detector another try."

"Excuse me?"

Not expecting that response but still deciding that Little Miss Trenchcoat was a better option that Harriet "Here's My Life Story" Griffin, he focused his attention on the confused brunette, explaining slowly, "The buckles on your coat are setting off the alarm. You need to go back through, put your coat on the same conveyer belt that you put your shoes and purse on, and then walk back through the metal detector again."

The woman's bright blue eyes narrowed but she replied calmly, "No."

It was Mark's turn to ask, perplexed, "Excuse me?"

"I'm not taking my coat off," she repeated slowly. "I'm just here to pick up my partner; it's not like I'm smuggling a bomb."

Like dogs with the smell of bacon, every Customs agent in the area seemed to prick up their ears at the 'b'-word and stare suspiciously at the increasingly stubborn Little Miss Trenchcoat. Mark Williams squared his (slightly squishier than they used to be) shoulders, fairly confident that the woman was not actually wrapped in Semtex, but nevertheless willing to follow the required protocol, if only to spare himself the pain of listening to more creepy exploits of Harriet's creepy son.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step over here so that a female agent can search you. We also need to ask you a few questions about the purpose of your visit to Dulles International Airport today."

The woman cast her eyes heavenward, letting out a despairing sigh as she spoke in annoyance, "Listen, I'm not some sort of terrorist." There was a not-so-subtle gasp from the eavesdropping guards at the 't'-word but she continued, unfazed, "My name is Dr Temperance Brennan, I work at the Jeffersonian Institute, and I'm here to pick up my partner who is an FBI Agent."

Mark's doorman-like confidence faltered for a moment. "You're an FBI Agent?"

She blinked at him in the same manner his dog had blinked at him when he'd tripped over his lead that morning and wedged himself in the trash can for twenty minutes. "No. I believe I just said that my partner's an FBI Agent. I work with the FBI as a forensic anthropologist."

Mark briefly thought back to his training, trying to remember whether 'forensic anthropologist' was on the list of people they were officially allowed to clear without search. _FBI Agents, CIA Agents, DEA Agents, US senators, US presidents, American Idol winners... Nope, no forensic anthropologists._

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we'll still need to search you." He glanced over at Harriet and jumped at finding her hovering curiously at his shoulder. Forcing a smile on his face, and tamping down the urge to shove his irritating partner head first into the X-Ray machine, he said politely, "My colleague will search you, Dr Brennan, and then you'll have to come with us for questioning."

"Questioning? Why would I need-"

Her angry question was silenced by the Breath of Doom from Harriet, which was remarkably similar to a child's intake of air before screaming at the top of their lungs but was instead used to prepare for a particularly long monologue, thankfully not directed at Mark this time. "Just lift your arms a little for me, ma'am. Yes, that's it; I always think of airplanes when I ask people to do this, which is funny really seeing as how this place is actually an airport with actual planes, but my son, Chris, loves to do airplane impressions like this, only I can't pick him up anymore to do it properly, what with my sciatica and him weighing as much as he does."

Mark smirked a little at the look of horror on Brennan's face as Harriet prattled on while patting down her arms and torso, and he began to wonder whether the woman would end up head-first in the X-Ray machine after all.

Oblivious to the waves of annoyance emanating from the anthropologist, she continued on regardless, "I mean, it's not his fault he's getting so big. Just part your legs a little for me, ma'am. I know growing boys need to eat, and I can't bring myself to say no when he asks me for food - it's the big brown eyes that do it. I swear he gets them from his father... Anyway, I feel like a horrible mother if I say no, but I'm starting to really question whether eleven Tootsie Pops a day is healthy for a boy his a-"

Blessed silence reigned for a second.

So busy basking in the glow of the quietness, Mark almost missed Harriet's wide-eyed stare as she looked back at him, hands frozen in place.

That place was halfway up Brennan's leg.

Above a pair of black stilettos.

Below a pair of black panties.

And surrounded by very little else.

 _Oh._

Mindful of the jealous nature of Federal Agents after an accidental hand slippage when searching the sister of one, and confident that the woman who turned up to meet her 'partner' in lingerie, heels and a trenchcoat was definitely something more than a sister, he stepped forward, stopping Harriet from edging into sexual harassment territory as he stammered, "Uh, Dr Brennan, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." He nodded briefly to his colleague before gesturing to a side room. "This way please."

Her hands went to her waist and she schooled her features into another expression which resembled that of his beloved dog, this time the one seen after Rupert had sprawled happily on _his_ couch and resisted any suggestions that he should move his doggy butt to the floor where it belonged. (Suffice to say, Mark Williams had spent many nights watching television from the floor.)

Doubtful he could lift the stubborn anthropologist any more easily than he could lift his hefty Labrador, he opted for persuasion. "Please come this way, ma'am; you're not in any trouble, we just want to ask you a few questions about your earlier statements and about, uh..." _Your decision to wear lingerie to an airport. What your partner/boyfriend did to end up with a girlfriend like you. Any friends you might have who would be interested in dating an airport security guard._ "Uh, the issue with the scanner. Just through here, please."

She hesitated for a moment, but then gave a reluctant nod, following him to the interview room with a brief sigh of relief, which Mark suspected was because the ever-chatty Harriet had thankfully been left behind.

However, any relief he himself felt vanished abruptly as the door shut behind him and Brennan whirled to face him, hands planted on her hips as she asked, annoyed, "Do I really need to be here? I'm not carrying any weapons or explosives; I just came to pick up my partner from his flight from Miami."

Easing himself to a seat, Mark feigned a glance at his clipboard and prompted with attempted casualness, "When you say partner..."

Heels clicking on the gray floor as she paced, Brennan sighed loudly. "Partner, colleague, boyfriend, lover; is there a specific term you'd prefer?"

Mark wisely remained silent when it came to categorising the man this particular woman would risk public semi-nudity for, but strongly suspected that he'd fall into the "lover" category, with a likely side order of "pretty damn good in bed". Instead he opted to divert the subject. "This partner of yours, you said he works for the FBI?"

Another sigh. "Special Agent Seeley Booth with the Homicide Division of the FBI. I work with him and with the FBI to solve crimes, and are these questions really necessary?"

Realising his less-than-professional interest had been busted, Mark actually changed the subject this time rather than simply approaching from a different angle, and asked the required question, "Dr Brennan, why did you refuse to comply with the approved instruction to remove your coat for the scanner?"

The "I can't believe you're stuck in a trash can" stare returned, and he dropped his eyes to his clipboard as she answered slowly and patronisingly, "Because, as you know, I'm not fully clothed underneath this coat and I had no inclination to remove it in public."

He dutifully wrote his notes, but pushed, confused, "But you did choose to come to the airport and run that risk, correct?"

She folded her arms under her breasts, her voice cool but confident as she spoke, "I didn't know about the excess security measures in place or I might have reconsidered, but I was intending to meet my partner and am not ashamed in that respect. Sexual preferences vary greatly and this variation of foreplay is surprisingly popular, both for the men and women involved." She leaned forward, voice becoming warmer as her enthusiasm grew. "Actually, the Sabaka tribe from a remote part of Indonesia practice a similar version, in which the woman wears a large grass garment, almost like a kaftan, with nothing underneath and spends a whole day working around camp before participating in the bridal ritual in the evening. There have even been similarities drawn with the Scottish custom among men of going naked under their kilts, and with the Lithuanian habit of-"

"Thank you, Dr Brennan," he interrupted bluntly, fairly certain that his Customs report didn't cover customs of the Indonesian mating variety. "That explains your reluctance to remove your coat, but not your insistence that you didn't have a bomb on your body and that you weren't a terrorist."

Her blue eyes narrowed in a frown. "I'm not allowed to say that I'm not a terrorist?"

"No, it just-"

She pressed on. "So I have to say that I am a terrorist?"

He was lost. "You're a terrorist?"

"Well, no," Brennan stated firmly. "But you objected to me saying that I wasn't."

"So you're not a terrorist?"

"No," she concluded firmly before falling silent and looking at him expectantly.

Mark's brain tried to catch up with the conversation that had just happened, but it drew the line at translating it into note form, writing instead, _Is definitely not a terrorist._ Before his poor, over-worked mind could regroup for the next question, his foolhardy mouth spoke almost of its own accord, "And the bomb?"

Brennan's eyes widened and she sat up in her chair, speaking in disbelief, "The bomb? I told you I didn't have a bomb."

"Yes, but that suggests that you might know, uh, that there was one." He swallowed, clarifying nervously, "A bomb, I mean."

She wrinkled her brow, thoroughly perplexed. "Is that not what you were checking for?"

Mark felt like his brain was trying to fight its way through a large sea of Jello towards the mythical isle of 'Sense' which remained infuriatingly elusive. "Huh?"

"The scanners and X-Ray machines are both in place to check for bombs; it's only logical to assume that you thought there would be a bomb, and I was trying to be helpful when I told you I didn't have one." She nodded conclusively. "I still don't, for that matter."

Smirking briefly at the notion that she could have cobbled a bomb together in the time it had taken them to walk to the interview room, he managed a slightly intimidated nod at her statement. "Thank you for the clarification." Ducking his head, he wrote quickly, _Does not have bomb. Has not made bomb. Is in no way bomb-involved._

Satisfied, he got to his feet with the smile of someone very keen to race out of the lion's den. "That's pretty much all the questions I have for you, Dr Brennan. I'll send my female colleague in to finish the basic search in privacy, but after that, you'll be free to see your, uh, partner."

The anthropologist sighed, and Mark valiantly resisted the urge to sprint out of there before she could launch another objection, instead listening courteously as she repeated tiredly, "Is that really necessary?"

 _Yes, yes, it is. I'm actually starting to pity the man who gets to see you without that coat, and that's saying something._

He started to tune out as Brennan continued, "It's not like I could hide anything anywhere. Could you not just check and then let me go to meet Agent Booth?"

His response was automatic. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's against protocol to-"

 _Holy mother of God._

'Automatic' apparently broke down when faced with a trenchcoat-holding, lingerie-clad anthropologist standing ready to be searched.

"Uh, ma'am, I-"

Speech failed him as well when she turned round, raising her arms out to the sides and practically inviting his eyes to travel down the black straps of her bra, the smooth lines of her hips and the curve of her ass which was accentuated by her small black panties.

 _I- It- This-_ He took a deep breath and had a brief mental pep talk. _C'mon, Mark, be a man._ She turned back round and his eyes fell on her covered breasts. _Not a man in that sense though. That would be bad, and wrong, and unprofessional, and might get you beaten up by an FBI Agent. Which would be a Bad Plan. Focus on Good Plans. Good Plans are good._

"Is that enough?" Brennan inquired matter-of-factly. "As far as I'm concerned you've done your job."

 _I have a job?_ A mental smack from the part of his mind which craved paychecks and the subsequent fix of Krispy Kremes. _Yes, I have a job. Right._

"Thank you for your co-operation, Dr Brennan, but official regulations state that the search completion section of the form must be signed by a woman."

She shrugged and reached for the pen. "I'm a woman."

"A woman officer," he clarified, taking a leap back with a barely contained yelp at the thought of a semi-naked and surprisingly aggressive woman swooping in to steal his pen. "I- I'll just go get, uh, my colleague. Wait here," he squeaked nervously, before dashing out of the door and deciding that dealing with actual terrorists would be preferable to staring down Dr Brennan again.

Composing himself as best he could, he headed over to the unoccupied Harriet, intending to spare another colleague from an enthusiastic and unstoppable monologue about little Chris' penchant for munching his way through her lipstick. He was therefore surprised to find that Harriet had not attached herself, like a story-telling limpet, to a fellow security guard, but was talking and gesturing to a tall, dark-haired man who he guessed was a passenger from the bag that was slung over his shoulder. Mark began to walk over to another female co-worker but was stopped when Harriet turned to face him, smiling broadly and waving as though guiding in an incoming plane.

"Mark! Mark!" She beamed at him, pointing to the stranger who look understandably startled by the woman's shrill shouts. "This man's looking for the brunette lady you were interviewing." She leaned toward him as he approached, adding in a decidedly unwhisperlike whisper, "He's an FBI Agent."

Realisation dawned, and Mark extended his hand to the new arrival, relieved that someone would be taking the awkward Little Miss Trenchcoat (or at the moment Little Miss No-Trenchcoat) off his all-too-tempted hands. "Special Agent Booth?"

The agent gripped his hand like a lifeline, which wasn't that surprising after a conversation with Harriet Griffin, and offered him a good-natured smile, "Yep, that's me. This seems kinda backward, but I'm here to pick up my partner?"

Mark smiled in return, grateful that at least one half of this partnership appeared relatively sane, and began to head toward the door. "Right this way, Sir. I'll have to ask you to take her straight out of Dulles International though as we've had problems with finalising her security access." He offered an apologetic shrug. "She, uh, wasn't the most co-operative, Sir."

Booth laughed, running a hand through his dark hair as he adjusted the bag on his shoulder. "That really doesn't surprise me."

The Customs agent was about to reach for the door when he was stopped by a hand on his arm and a smile that proved once again just who had the people skills in this relationship. "I'll take it from here, Mr..." Booth's eyes fell to his blue plastic nametag. "Mr Williams. Thank you for your help."

Receiving a friendly yet dismissive pat on the back, Mark nodded in acknowledgement, stepping aside to let him enter and inwardly ranking Agent Booth fairly low on the 'Jackass' rating scale he and several other guards had implemented for dealing with the seemingly ever-present FBI and CIA contingents at the airport. Smiling contentedly at a job well done (and at a troublesome yet attractive doctor being handily off-loaded to somebody else), he moved to rejoin his fellow Customs agents in the hunt for illegally smuggled plutonium and/or parakeets.

However, when he heard a throaty chuckle through the interview room door and an amused male voice instructing, "Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs", he started to wonder if his mother, his friends and his pet Labrador had the right idea after all; being an FBI Agent certainly seemed to have its perks.


End file.
